The chamber was quiet except for the whisper of winter wind against the frosted windowpanes.
Count Vanhart and Viscount Malloren stood side by side, their silhouettes long against the dim light—two men who had served their lands for decades, yet found themselves speechless before young sprouts rising through snow.
Their conversation lingered not in hope, but in disbelief.
Then the door opened.
Softly.
No fanfare.
Kel von Rosenfeld entered without ceremony—coat trailing behind him, his presence as composed as if he had not spent hours mending bones and rethreading fate.
His breath, steady.
His steps, measured.
His eyes, cool and unwavering as they surveyed the room.
"Count. Viscount."
His voice cut through still air like a blade against ice.
"I heard from the steward that harlroot growth has increased drastically, and that we can begin early harvest next week."
Both men turned toward him—not startled, but struck by the simplicity with which he stated what they had been afraid to believe.
Malloren cleared his throat.
"We… also received that information. We were discussing it."
Kel inclined his head.
His expression remained unchanged.
"I have an idea," he said quietly. "If you're willing to hear it. One that could drastically accelerate Vanhart territory's recovery."
Count Vanhart did not sit.
Nor did he ask Kel to.
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the report still lying open upon the desk.
"Speak."
Kel's Proposal
Kel approached the desk but did not look at the parchment. Instead, he fixed his eyes briefly on the outside fields beyond the window.
"As the soil stabilizes," he began, "you will see rapid recovery. But recovery alone is long-term. We must exploit this opportunity while it is young."
Malloren frowned.
"Exploit how?"
Kel met his eyes.
"Not through mass sale."
Malloren blinked.
"…not?"
Kel shook his head.
"If you flood the market early, harlroot value will decline. You will earn coin—once—but lose the chance to redefine your territory's stature."
Count Vanhart leaned slightly forward.
Kel continued.
"Instead, harvest fifty-five percent of the initial early-growth batch."
Malloren's brows furrowed. "Only half?"
Kel nodded.
"Store twenty percent for internal use—alchemical supply, recovery stimulants, treatment of workers. Use that to increase production rates of other crops and ores."
His hand moved over invisible diagrams in his mind.
"Sell the remaining thirty-five percent not to general merchants but exclusively to central Alchemists Guild. Create limited release contracts—six-month agreements. Rare supply drives price up. And while guilds fight to secure rights, word spreads that Vanhart is natural root source."
Count Vanhart's eyes sharpened.
"That would place us back on imperial economic maps."
Kel's gaze dropped slightly.
"And you control access."
Malloren exhaled slowly.
"And the remaining forty-five percent of harlroot?"
Kel looked him in the eyes.
"You replant it."
Malloren froze.
"…Replant?"
Kel's voice maintained its calm.
"Yes. You let the strongest growth chains reseed. Due to accelerated development, the second-generation crop will adapt faster to frost and, statistically, produce 1.7 times yield in next season."
Malloren's jaw loosened as he processed.
"You're not just growing more," Kel said. "You're establishing dominance. If winter crop from Vanhart produces yield while others fail, your territory sets pricing."
He paused.
"And then… the Empire approaches you instead of you approaching it."
Count Vanhart stared at Kel in silence.
Malloren turned toward the window.
Wind shifted against the glass.
A Question Unspoken
Finally, Vanhart asked quietly,
"Where did you learn this?"
Kel did not look at him.
He turned slowly toward the frost-laden field outside.
"Reading," he replied simply.
Malloren's lips parted.
"That is not something you 'read'," he murmured.
Kel finally shifted his gaze, looking back at them.
His eyes—not prideful, not even anticipating agreement—simply assessing.
"As part of my path," he said softly, "I measure what can be saved."
The room held its breath.
Then Count Vanhart asked the question beneath all questions:
"Why?"
Kel blinked.
"Why," Vanhart repeated, "do you walk this path—not as heir to House Rosenfeld, but as someone who chooses to mend what he has no obligation to fix?"
Kel's answer came without hesitation.
"Because this land gave me what I needed to save a life," he said. "So now I return it."
Silence.
Malloren swallowed.
"You mean Lysenne."
Kel's gaze sharpened, not in dissent—simply in clarification.
"I mean anyone worth saving."
Count Vanhart closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, something quiet shifted.
Respect.
Perhaps fear.
Something between them.
Malloren breathed slowly, deeply.
"…What do you require from us?"
Kel stepped away from the desk.
He did not demand authority.
Nor request imperial approval.
His reply was simple.
"I need access to the outer alchemical storage. And eight additional hands to begin reprocessing extracted harlroot in three days."
"Done," Vanhart said instantly.
"And…" Kel continued, his tone unchanging, "I will need permission to use the northern ravine as stabilizing site for soil tests. It has higher mana concentrations close to groundwater."
"Granted."
Kel nodded.
"And," he said last, eyes lowering a fraction, "I may need estate physicians to perform follow-up on workers using infusions."
Malloren took a breath.
"You will have it."
Before he left the room
Kel paused near the door.
The two noblemen watched his back.
There was nothing regal in the gesture.
Nothing meant to inspire.
Only something absolute.
Without turning, Kel spoke:
"If all goes correctly, you will see change before the first thaw."
Count Vanhart's voice came low.
"And if all fails?"
Kel looked over his shoulder.
The cold moonlight through the window framed his expression.
"If it fails," he said, "I will correct it."
There was no ego in his tone.
Only decision.
Only inevitability.
He opened the door.
Snowlight spilled into the dim room.
He stepped out.
The door closed behind him.
For a long time, the men stood in silence.
Until Malloren spoke, barely audible.
"He speaks like spring," he said.
"As if the frost yields because he decided it should."
Vanhart watched his own reflection in the frost-covered window.
"…Perhaps," he murmured, "winter simply did not expect someone willing to walk it as if the cold were his ally."
Malloren exhaled a weary sound.
Then straightened his posture.
"We should prepare the ravine."
Vanhart nodded.
"Yes."
Outside, in the pale morning light—
harlroot shoots pressed through frost like small veins of defiance.